The Princess and the Pauper
by Revan11
Summary: Rated T for language. Spot loves Abby but what will the wealthy upper class family think of Spot when he rushes to declare his love for her before she is forced into marrying the nephew of one Joseph Pulitzer.


His mind raced for words to say to her. In every part of his brain he conjured up words to be phrased together but the phrases fell apart, they had no real meaning, they felt generic to Spot Conlon. He was known as a heartless bastard, a selfish prick, a stuck up street rat with nothing to lose. He didn't care how he was labeled, it didn't bother him if every borough apart from Manhattan wanted to make him an offer he couldn't refuse, simply because he cast fear upon them. It is for reasons such as these that Spot Conlon had no clue as to what he would say to this girl. He was sure she had been told every tale of his affairs with women, sure he was a ladies' man but Spot still had a sense of decency; he'd kissed more girls than you could shake a stick at, but he hadn't lost his virginity. He knew that was not something to be strewn about like decorations on a Christmas tree. His mother had always told him, _James, protect her like a daughter. Love her like your wife. And respect her like your mother._ It was this respect he had for his dear mother that led him to the principles of decency that he maintained to this day.

Something was different about Abigail, Spot realized, from other girls. When he first met her, she was as equally cold to him as he was to everyone else, she was not afraid of him, and she told him straight up how much of a prick he was. He frowned upon this in the public eye but deep inside he was smiling. He liked a challenger, someone who wouldn't go down without a fight, someone who was strong, fearless and, yes, beautiful.

He wanted someone just like his mother. He remembered how hard she worked and struggled when Spot, who was just five, lost his father to the typhoid fever. Though the Conlons were of the higher class, Spot's mother labored as worker long and hard each day in the factory to provide her children with an example that _life is not handed to you; don't take it for granted_. Spot, assuming his role as man of the house stayed home with young Avalana, two years his younger sibling. Each night Evelyn Conlon would return home to her waiting children with open arms, despite her thorough exhaustion and declining health. She fought with elegance, courage, and positivity, never allowing her children to see her in moments of weakness. She died peacefully when Spot was ten; Spot was never quite himself after she died. It theorized that his demeanor and his swagger present at the time are due to the lack of affection and tender loving care provided by his mother. Spot was not about to lie: he loved his mother, he respected her, and he needed her. Underneath his cold, blunt, prickish shell was the soft, tender Spot like he was when he was a child. Now five years after his mother's death, Spot had found the one girl, unlike all the others, that he had been searching for since Evelyn went to be with the angels. He wanted to say so much to her but with so little space what could he crowd together that would be fitting enough for the perfect girl. Let's be straight, Spot didn't want Abigail as the substitute of his mother, he loved her genuinely as his future bride but a person goes to where they are most familiar and it is in Abigail that Evelyn's caring traits resonate best. Spot smiled, he could hear his mother's voice echoing in his mind, _Speak from the heart, James, that is where true love will display its power best. Speak, do not write. Go to her and show her your love. _

Promptly, as if his mother was there in person, Spot laid his pen aside and walked out his bunkroom and out of the lodging house. He knew exactly where he needed to go he had walked the path so many times that he had lost count. The walk from Brooklyn to the Bronx was long, but Spot did not mind. The only thing he could think about was getting to Abigail before it was too late. She was set to be engaged to Frederick Hopkins, the nephew of Joseph Pulitzer, at half past eight tonight, at least he hoped he had heard that correctly when had spied on Abigail's mother yesterday.

Then he recalled the event that rocked his world just days prior. The words that had transpired between them days before, were hurtful; Spot did not fathom how incredibly spiteful his words to Abigail were. He wanted nothing more than to rewrite what he had said to her but cruel words, despite the ability to be erased from the paper or removed from the mind, become etched on the heart and cannot easily be cured.

As Spot passed through Queens, the rain began to pour, drenching his dirty clothes, turning into even more a street urchin. He began to run now as he examined his ragged clothes. He didn't care what he looked like because he already knew what Abigail's family thought of him: a street rat, with no future.

He had become so wrapped in his thoughts, he did not see a horse carriage passing that was through the street. The soaking, exhausted boy collided with the heavy wooden cart. Spot collapsed to the ground as the carriage driver continued on, apparently unaware of the accident that had just ensued. Spot stood up a bit shaken, massaging his head momentarily. As he walked on, he could his eye swelling quickly. _Great, just great_, he thought. He was thankful, though that he had not suffered a more severe fate. As he began to work himself back into a sprint, he heard the distant bonging of the city bell. He froze, listening intently to each gong: The bell ceased half a minute later. It was eight o'clock. He did not have much time. he broke into another sprint, springing forward with each step.

At last, Abigail's large house came into view. It was a Richardsonian Romanesque style house built of rough-faced stonework with a front-facing gable and a corner tower, the tower above the corner bay windows featured decorative battlements. That was Abigail's bedroom, Spot knew that well enough, having scaled that tower wall countless times, late at night to be able to see her.

He made his way straight for the front door. He knocked several times when he reached the massive wooden door. The wait felt like forever to Spot, who paced the porch searching for what he would say when he finally had Abigail in front him. The door opened suddenly, startling Spot a little.

"No, no, no. Go away you street rat, food scraps are only given out after mealtime which was 2 hours ago. Run along before I get the police," said the tall older man, dressed in a new suit and polished shoes. Spot spoke quickly as the butler began closing the door. "My name is Conlon. James Conlon. I'm here to see Miss Abigail Swinton. Please sir, it is urgent." The butler frowned as he glared suspiciously at the stranger standing on the porch. After several moments of staring and silence, the butler showed Spot inside. "This way, Mister Conlon." Spot followed promptly, meandering through several halls and open rooms before the two came to a halt.

"Wait here, sir," the butler said disappearing through the doorway. Spot waited patiently, scanning the room he was in. His eyes came to rest on a grandfather clock on the wall opposite him. Twenty til nine! He had missed it! Abigail was now betrothed to Pulitzer's nephew and Spot had failed.

He could feel his anger churning inside of him as he heard the butler's voice faintly in the other room, "There is a boy outside waiting to speak with Miss Abigail." Moments later he returned to Spot, "The family will see you now, Mister Conlon." Spot rolled his eyes as he sped along behind the butler, he detested being addressed as 'Mr. Conlon' or 'James' but for the cause and the fact that he was back in the high society, he suffered through it.

Spot's entrance was unlike any Abigail's family and company were used to seeing, as no street boy or low class urchin had ever graced the inside of Swinton Manor. Spot had been out of the limelight of the upper class for several years now and that was drastically evident: elegance replaced by swagger, grammar was on the decline, and overall appearance was shabby at best. Spot had completely forgotten about his appearance until he was not so subtly reminded by the gasps and horrifying looks he received from the multitudes of hoity-toity well-to-dos that littered the room. He felt his eye tingle causing him to touch it sparingly; as he came to a halt in the center of the room he glanced into a mirror that stood on the wall to his left, his eye was black and blue, his clothes mangled and filthy, what an impression he was making. He turned back to a mother and daughter seated on the couch in front of him, it was Abigail and Mrs. Swinton, one of the wealthiest people in all New York, wife to John Swinton, former chief editorialist for _The New York Sun_.

Abigail smiled shyly at Spot as her mother spoke in a very threatening tone, "Who are you and what business have you with my Abigail?" Mrs. Swinton glared at Spot with suspicious and mistrusting eyes, Spot stared right back with his grey blue eyes, fearless and determined, "My name is Spot Conlon, once upon I was James Conlon, son of the renowned Anthony L. Conlon , chief journalist of _The New York World._ I ain't all hoity-toity anymore though; my parents are dead and my sister Avalanna was taken in by some wealthy pricks in Manhattan." Spot paused, his language was disapproved of as the room filled with a long awful gasp. "Pardon my French. I ain't no rich boy but I am respectable, I ain't got no elegance but I got discipline. I'm a newsie in Brooklyn and my business with your daughter is this: I love her; since the first day I laid eyes on her back at Irving Hall over a year ago. I'm a street rat now sure, but I was once like you, all pretentious and stuck up but now look at me. So we're the same, you and me, we're all human, we all got souls, we all have one life to live and one love to give, and true love ain't found in money and hobnobbing with all 'a high society, you find real love in the trials of life. Mrs. Swinton, I love Abby, there ain't no two ways about it. I found through watching my mother labor everyday even when she did not have to, that love is unconditional, there ain't no one right away or wrong way. Love ain't about finding a person you can live with, it's about finding that one person that you can't live without and for me that's Abby. Think what you will about me but don't take Abby away from me. I love her with all my heart." Spot paused, the entire room was silent save for some quiet sobbing from an elderly woman seated to the right.

"Abby," Spot began again, "Ever since I saw you at Medda's, I knew you were the one, your smile, your laugh, your energy, the way that you flip you hair, more importantly your good heart. People tell me 'Spot Conlon, you ain't got a heart, you're cold, cruel, and uncaring, if you did have heart it would be black as ever and numb to charity.' Truth is I believed them, Abs. When I met you, everything came into perspective. I did have a heart and more importantly I got a soul, and it all belongs to you, because you showed me a way out of the darkness when I had fallen. My mother died when I was ten, she was the sweetest angel God ever made. I searched for another even close to what she embodied as my mother for a few years with no luck. I swear, mama showed me to you. I hear her voice in my head tell me you are mine. So Abby, this is what I've been wanting to tell you but I just couldn't find the words. I love you and I will never stop loving you til the day I die." Without any notice, Abigail shot up from her seat and rushed to Spot's side, staring deeply into his eyes, she pressed her lips to his. Spot smiled as they shared this moment. Nothing in the world felt better than this kiss. The onlookers gasped again, something rather popular to do when something shocking happens. Frederick stood looking on in ghastly horror as he turned his gaze to Abigail's mother. Mrs. Swinton, sat with her mouth agape to the situation unfolding before her. Abigail had never mentioned this boy before to her, though he dressed as a street rat he had upper class roots, he cared about her daughter, it seemed; to be honest, she had quickly come to prefer him to Frederick, who was a whiny, pathetic, money-hoarding coward though she had never uttered these words to him.

"Mother, I love Spot, I know I have been promised to Frederick but," she glanced toward Pulitzer's nephew, "I cannot marry him, when my heart belongs to another." Her mother smiled, "Go now child, I love you too much to watch you suffer. If this is the boy you love then go to him."

Spot grinned from ear to ear as he pulled he Abigail closer to him. They left the house minutes later, much to the atrocity of the lingering crowd. Mrs. Swinton was mocked by her wealthy snobbish peers but she knew she had done right by her daughter and that was what mattered most to her.

"I love you, Abby, you're all mine now and nothing can change that." Spot smiled as he wrapped his arms around her small frame as the two stood entwined on the Brooklyn Bridge. He looked her up and down and then pressed his lips to hers as she ran her fingers through his hair. When at last they pulled away, Abigail smiled, "I love you, Babe, so much." He intertwined his fingers with hers as they strolled across the bridge and back to Brooklyn back to Spot's realm, uncaring of people's misguided opinions and knowing they would find happiness because they had each other.


End file.
